I just got back from my first trip to Patagonia—a week chasing trout in a place I never expected to go. Honestly, before this trip, I was pretty burnt out on trout fishing. After seven years living in Montana, I’d fished just about every blue ribbon stream in Wyoming, Idaho, and Montana, with several trips into Alberta and British Columbia. Spring creeks, freestones, tailwaters, lakes, ponds, reservoirs, big creeks, small creeks—you name it. I wasn’t trying to rack up numbers nor am I trying to brag; I just fished hard, and eventually, I hit a point where it didn’t spark joy anymore.
To make matters worse, I was picky. I only wanted to sight-fish with dry flies. If it wasn’t that, I’d rather just take in the scenery while my friends fished.
Eventually, this burnout led me more into saltwater fly fishing. These days I live in Beaufort, South Carolina, and bonefishing or pursuing snook or reds with a 7-weight is my favorite thing on Earth—wading or poling over turtle grass, oyster bars, or white sand flats, prospecting for your target.
So when a close friend invited me to Patagonia, my first thoughts were:
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I’m kind of over trout fishing.
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If I’m going to spend money to travel and fish, it’ll be for salt.
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Why would I travel for trout?
I’d even joked once: “If I never catch another trout, I’m good.” But I said yes, mainly because I wanted to travel with this friend—a guy I’ve worked with for over eight years at Yellow Dog, but never actually hit the road with.
After a long flight to Buenos Aires and a shorter one to Esquel, we were met by Oggie, the owner of Las Pampas Lodge. A 3.5–4 hour drive later, something started to stir in me again. The camaraderie, the shared vision that didn’t need to be openly communicated, the sense of belonging that comes from being around people who see the world the same way—people drawn together by trout.
That feeling reminded me of my days on the Henry’s Fork. That community has a gravity to it. I’m guessing there are similar communities in the angling world like it, whether that’s Craig, Montana, Islamorada, or Terrace, BC. Doesn’t matter if you’re young, old, rich, broke—if you’re there, it’s because the river or flats means something to you. It transforms you. It’s not about status or skill. It’s about connection.
That same energy hit me as we rolled into Rio Pico. People had told me Las Pampas was special—and not everyone “gets it.” I now know what they meant.
So… Why Travel for Trout?
Because Patagonia isn’t like back home. These trout behave differently. They live differently. They are different.
On day one, we were on the Pampas River. I spotted a nice boulder across the river and started wading toward it—over a shallow gravel bar. My guide stopped me. “Trout are holding right where you’re walking,” he said. That’s unheard of in the Rockies. You’d never find fish in that kind of water unless there was a hatch going off or a major spinner fall.
Even more shocking was how the rainbows behaved—like curious cutthroat in Yellowstone. They’d bump big bushy dries with their noses before deciding to eat. And if you gave a clean presentation while fishing spring creeks, they’d actually eat the fly. No games, no hyper-selective snubs because of one extra hackle wrap. It felt honest. Refreshing.
Coming from Georgia, I grew up around stocked trophy streams—big fish, sure, but it wasn’t something you’d brag about. In Patagonia, I kept waiting to see the pellet feeders. But there were none. These were wild, big, beautiful trout behaving in ways I’d never seen. It felt like stepping back in time to the American West before the crowds, before the development. Just endless, untouched water.
Don’t Skip the Lakes
I know a lot of anglers might turn up their noses at lake fishing. Don’t. It was one of the biggest surprises of the trip.
Think of it like bonefishing or tarpon fishing for massive trout—on dries. We cast size 14 caddis to cruising fish over gin-clear water as well as the biggest dry flies I’ve ever casted trout - period. I watched one rise while we were eating lunch, threw a cast four feet ahead, and watched him track and sip the fly like a tarpon on the flats. Unreal.
Las Pampas Lodge: A Model of Hospitality
The crew at Las Pampas is something special. Oggie and his team have built a culture that businesses—big and small—should study. They’re welcoming, genuine, generous, and they clearly love what they do. The vibe is relaxed, the lodge overlooks a stunning mountain range, and you can feel the mutual respect, trust, and friendship among the staff. That’s rare.
Final Thoughts
Patagonia is vast. Honestly, a week isn’t enough. Everyone at the lodge felt it—you’re just scratching the surface. There’s too much water, too many possibilities.
If you’re a saltwater angler who’s skeptical of traveling for trout—or a freshwater purist who thinks you’ve seen it all—go anyway. Patagonia has a way of flipping your expectations upside down. This trip wasn’t just another fishing trip—it filled in a missing chapter in my trout fishing journey. I’m grateful I got to share it with a great friend.
Key Takeaways
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Rod choice: Bring a 6-weight. Yes, really. The wind is serious.
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Layering is everything: Start with a warm base, add a vest, a Nano Puff, and a windbreaker. Patagonia’s weather changes fast—be ready.
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Travel time: It’s a haul. Be prepared. But trust that it’s worth every mile.
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Come with an open mind: What you know from the Rockies, Catskills, Appalachians, or wherever you cut your teeth in trout fishing may not apply here.
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Don’t skip the lakes: Some of the best dry fly sightfishing of the trip happened on stillwater.
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Airport tip: If there’s a fast-track or VIP service through customs/security—even if it’s $500—it’s worth it.
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Patagonia is the Disney World of trout fishing: Show up ready to be surprised.
